


A Sunday Kind Of Love

by StellarLibraryLady



Series: Dancing To (And Living By) The Oldies [9]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Blues, Dancing, Developing Relationship, Ella Fitzgerald - Freeform, First Kiss, First Time (Implied), Loneliness, Lonely McCoy, M/M, Solitary drinking, blues music, concerned spock, men dancing together, song related
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-20 22:30:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12443139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StellarLibraryLady/pseuds/StellarLibraryLady
Summary: McCoy is having a rough night, and old torch songs aren’t helping any. He’s about as blue as anyone can get late on a Saturday night in mid-October.And then his door chimed.





	1. The Blues In The Night

**Author's Note:**

> It's that bluesy time of the year.

Out here in space, it was difficult to tell day from night. Just looking at the passing stars didn’t help the casual observer on a spaceship who has trying to learn the time of day or the date on the calendar. But right now, here on the Starship Enterprise, it was generally accepted, by all of whom were affected, that this was late on a Saturday night in mid-October, and it didn‘t get any lonelier than this. 

Back on Earth in the Northern Hemisphere, the summer was dying a hard death as was ordained by the cycle of the seasons. The Earth had been gradually tilting since the first day of summer so that the southern climes could receive the fuller rays of the sun and experience summer. In the Northern Hemisphere, the evenings would be getting crisper, and children would be eagerly anticipating Halloween in several countries. Then it would be only a few weeks until Christmas. Children were ecstatic. It would be the time for warm and fuzzy feelings and for good will to all men. 

But Leonard McCoy didn’t care about other people‘s happiness and their rosy prospects for the future. He was glad for them for their good fortune in a generalized sort of way, of course. After all, he was a doctor, damn it. And a humanitarian. That meant that he was in favor of the advancement of knowledge and the betterment of mankind's life experience. He had sworn to preserve life and to honor it. He applauded the upward rising status of the human race on general principles. He had to do that because it was ingrained in him to nurture and to further the advancement of his own species. But beyond those fuzzy guidelines about his fellow man, he just didn‘t give a fuck about too many people. Most people could just fuck off, as far as he was concerned.

Yeah, that was the kind of crappy mood that he was in. Don't show him anything cute and cuddly. They wouldn't faze him, at all. Wait. They might piss him off. Yeah, that was it. They would piss him off royally.

McCoy wiped a hand over his face, and his eyes felt weak and blurry from the exercise. This was a lousy mood he was in, already. It struck him occasionally. Generally, he could fight it off. But not tonight, not tonight. There was too much against him. 

Tonight seemed different, though. Maybe it was because he knew it could’ve been different. 

He just knew that he was lonely and alone and wishing he had taken Jim Kirk up on that shore leave offer. Just being somewhere else might help. Just so there was noise and activity and felt like something was going on. Even if all that McCoy got done was to sit in some dim bar on some far-flung planet and watch his friend hit on a woman, at least McCoy could pretend that he was having a good time. The noise and bar patrons would be a change from life aboard the Enterprise. And Kirk would want McCoy tagging along. Bones made an excellent wingman because he could always find his way home after he was needed and after Kirk had left with some conquest. McCoy might even get to be lucky enough to pick up a one night stand for himself. Bars were always ripe with eager, disappointed people wanting sexual diversions. Then McCoy would be warm and loved for a little while, even if it all dissolved in the cold light of morning and reality.

Instead, McCoy had turned Kirk down. Now, here he sat, deep in the quiet of artificial night on the Enterprise, with a bottle of bourbon that really didn’t interest him and Ella Fitzgerald in the background singing a torch song just for him. 

He could sit back and drift along with the magic that she was weaving and pretend that she sang just for him. It didn’t take that much effort. Really, it didn’t. All it took was his belief and her beguiling voice crying out the blues in the night.

That woman was straight out of McCoy’s lonely soul!

"I want a Sunday kind of love  
A love to last, past Saturday night  
I'd like to know, it's more than love at first sight  
I want a Sunday kind of love"

It was possible, wasn’t it, that she sang just for him? If he closed his eyes and wished it, wouldn’t that possibility come true? After all, Miss Ella had seemed to know him so well. After all, she was saying what was in his heart. 

He wished he had known Ella Fitzgerald, or any of the women from the Twentieth Century, who could sing a torch song with such sincerity. Their hearts were breaking with the shreds of their unrequited loves lying scattered about them, but they could still had the spirit to sing of their anguish. They could still warm up their pipes and belt out those torch songs to break your heart. They could still open their mouths and communicate all of their torture to other hearts that were aching. ‘They bleed for us,’ McCoy thought. ‘And they do it so damn well. Bless you, ladies. You speak for all the lost souls out there.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Miss Ella, you speak for me.’

Yeah, those sweet ladies must’ve led some pretty rough lives, because they sure seemed to understand what they were singing about. ‘Gotta love those sweet ladies, and I do,‘ McCoy thought. They were exhausted from their inner pain, but they still had the courage to tell the world of their sad encounters with love. But they were still hopeful that there was a love waiting for them somewhere out there. 

There must be a lesson in there somewhere for McCoy. 

If they could do it, so could he. Take a chance. Love might be around the next corner.

‘Thanks, ladies, I know what you want me to do. I know what I should do. Get off my sorry ass and do something. Better still, seek someone out and relate to them. Good advice. Wish I could think of someone willing to share my loneliness. They must be in their own dens of self-pity, sucking on their own sour rags of heartbreak.’

Who in the hell could he stir out at this time of artificial night to bellyache to? That’s what it amounted to, wasn’t it? Bellyaching about love gone wrong? ‘Feel sorry for me because I’m so needing some sympathy. I‘m so needy. I can’t hang onto the good love that comes my way. There must be something wrong with me because I scare away all the goodness I’m sent.’ 

McCoy frowned. Truth time. ‘Feel sorry for me because the bottom line is that I’m so unlovable. And I know it.’

Damn it, there it was! The thing that was always lurking around McCoy, taunting him, whispering, jabbing at his soul. He managed to keep it in its cage during working hours and during recreational times when he was socializing around other people. But McCoy knew it was there. Knew it was stalking him. Watching. Waiting. Waiting for the nighttime when he would be alone. And lonely. Like now.

But there was a glimmer, always there seemed to be a glimmer. But he didn’t know how. He supposed that he hadn’t managed to trample out optimism. Damn it, he tried his best! But, maybe, unknown to his conscious self, he wanted to be optimistic. That’s probably what stopped him from opening an air lock and getting sucked out into space or injecting a lethal dose of something in his circulatory system. Why be that exotic?! Hell, a bubble of air in the ol’ vein would suffice to check him out of his mortal coil. Save the drugs for somebody who wanted to live.

True, there had been someone on the dim edge of his horizon. Just this evening. In the mess hall. The Vulcan. But did he count? Did a guy who acted like a royal prick in the ass count as company, or as anything, for that matter? The guy seemed to have enough of his own troubles. Besides, he always acted so stiff and neutral around McCoy. Like he was holding himself together and being very careful because he feared he would shatter in a million pieces if he let his guard down for one minute.

But tonight he had seemed different, somehow. Spock had seemed to pick up on McCoy’s loneliness and need for companionship. Spock seemed to hover, as if he was extending his sphere of protection to include McCoy so he would shatter into a million pieces, either.

McCoy remembered a look of almost concern on Spock’s face as McCoy absently fiddled with his food. He knew that the long stretch of nighttime was coming, and its advent was more real to McCoy than the exercise of nourishing his body. McCoy wasn’t hungry. He didn’t want to make the effort to try to eat. But the longer he played with his food and stayed in the company of other people, the short that god forsaken night would last.

Why the hell had he chosen this slop that was presently staring back at him listlessly from his plate? It looked about as uninspired as McCoy felt. But nothing else had sounded interesting or appetizing, either.

Then McCoy had become aware of Spock studying him and that felt a little creepy. McCoy never felt too comfortable with those strange eyes focused on him.

Spock’s eyes were generally noncommittal, but tonight they looked fully on McCoy and reflected genuine concern. And it seemed to trouble the Vulcan.

It was strange seeing that much emotion on Spock’s face. Generally, Spock did not open up that much, especially to McCoy. They had sat together this evening mostly out of habit. Jim Kirk, who generally dined with them, was very absent between them.

“What are you looking at, Vulcan?” McCoy snapped.

Spock stirred himself and returned to his own food. “You were so quiet, Doctor. I wondered if you were perhaps ill.”

McCoy smirked with that know-it-all look on his face that didn‘t quite hide the pain inside him. But the Vulcan wouldn‘t notice his pain. The Vulcan noticed nothing of the suffering of his fellow man. It was not worth Spock’s precious time to have any concern for his fellow man.

“Well, now, maybe I get tired of talking to myself all the time,” McCoy drawled with a self-deprecating smirk. “Talking to you is rather like talking to a wall. It doesn’t answer me, either. But in a way, the wall is a better companion. Ignoring me is the wall‘s only choice. But you, you just ignore people on general principle.”

Spock flinched. McCoy had hurt him? Really?! Was that possible?!

But even if the Vulcan didn’t notice the suffering of his fellow man, McCoy did. Especially if he had been the one to cause the suffering. Besides, he couldn’t stand that hurt look. 

“I’m sorry, Spock. Look, it’s just me. I’m in a bitchy mood tonight. Sorry to drag you down to the depths with me.”

“I miss Jim, also, Doctor.”

“He is kinda our social director, isn’t he?” McCoy asked with a deprecating smile. “Look, it isn’t just because Jim isn’t here. I can function without him, and so can you. He just makes things a little easier when the two of us are together. In fact, he’s generally the reason that the two of us are together.”

“He does rely on our advice and viewpoints,” Spock answered noncommittally. 

McCoy realized that Spock had put up some sort of shields to shield himself. The Vulcan was protecting himself from whatever form of attack that McCoy chose to use. How could McCoy blame him for being leery? McCoy knew himself to know that he could be all over the board with his actions and rhetoric, if he wanted. No wonder someone else chose to protect himself.

“Look, I’m not much in the mood to chat or to eat, okay? So, if you don’t mind, I think that I’m gonna cut this mad gala short.” He stood up, and Spock’s questioning eyes followed him up. “Nothing against you, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s just me. I’m in this rotten mood. Solitude is the last thing I’m needing, but I know it’d be best if I just go to my own quarters. I’m not fit to be around decent people, and that includes you, in case you‘re wondering. I don‘t often say something this gushy, but I appreciate your company, no matter how convoluted it can be. Consider yourself lucky that I‘m leaving. It‘ll be better if I‘m by myself for awhile. Good night, Commander.”

With that, McCoy turned and left the society of men so that he could grouse alone and feel sorry for himself.

Why hadn’t he seen if Scotty had a poker game going? Or was at least drinking, so they could drink together? Sulu and Chekov could always be counted on for stories about their homelands and unique cultures. It would be refreshing to see their memories through their eyes. A new perspective was always good to jolt oneself out of the doldrums. 

And then there were the ladies. Nyota Uhura and Christine Chapel always had some crafts project going. Maybe he could finally start that afghan throw he’d been promising for himself. He could even make one for Joanna. How great would that be for her to have a needlecraft project from her father? And one that had been crafted in space, no less!

But he did none of that. When you hate yourself and your life, you want your whole system to concentrate on that self-hatred. You don’t want distraction. You want to wallow.

And that’s what McCoy had done. He shuffled back to his quarters, shut the door to his quarters, and commenced his evening with a bottle of bourbon and the sultry voice of Miss Ella Fitzgerald. The perfect props for someone with the blues: solitude, booze, and music in the night.

McCoy stared at the bottle while the sad songs coursed through him. So this was his world. It all boiled down to this. After a lifetime of service and adventurous living, this was all that he had. A bottle of bourbon and the voice of a woman long dead.

Hell, he didn’t even want this bourbon! But it was something! Anything! Something to hold! Please, I need something! Somebody! Anybody! Is that so much to ask?! Give a guy a break, already! What does it take to get some help in this sorry-assed life?! Where's my knight in shining armor?! Where's a love meant just for me?!

Nothing.

McCoy smirked. What the hell were you expecting, Leonard?! An answer to your fervent prayers?!

Well, his prayers were answered, alright.

A big, resounding NO!

Where the hell was that bottle?!

And then his door chimed.


	2. Love Walked Right In

What the hell?! Who was that?! Prayers were indeed answered?! Just when McCoy had decided that all the ones in charge had deserted him, they went and proved him wrong again.

Who else in this damn tin can was even awake at this hour?!

Was there an emergency in sickbay? He would’ve been commed to have saved time. No medico would’ve come to his door for help. He would’ve been the one running, not someone else. No, they would’ve sat on their cans or had a swig of coffee or ‘conferred’ with knitted brows about the case while they waited for the older man to come sprinting along the hallways and even riding the turbo lift, if need be. All the while wondering why the old geezer didn’t get the lead out.

No, McCoy chided himself. The patient couldn’t be brought to him; he had to go to the patient. That’s the way it had always been done. He knew the drill. He was a general practitioner, at heart. As he always bragged proudly, “I’m just an old country doctor.“ That meant he knew that he was on twenty-four hour notice, seven days a week. Death doesn’t take a holiday, neither should doctors trying to cheat Death.

But that still wasn’t answering the burning question of who was at his door at this hour of the night. But still he was reluctant to answer. Could it be that he actually liked his solitude? Did he really want to be rescued from his funk?

McCoy shook his head to dispel that line of self examination. That was a psychoanalysis best left for another time.

Was someone lost? On the Enterprise?! Come on now! A starship is only so big! Granted, there were all those hallways, but still. Maybe some drunk was fumbling his way home. Maybe an errant lover was trying to keep a tryst and found his door by mistake. Maybe it was a drunk errant lover for him. Great! Just his luck! Oh, well, send him on his way. And they’d both be disappointed for the rest of this hellish long night.

“Come,” he called.

McCoy’s door slid open, and McCoy blinked at his guest.

“Mr. Spock?”

“Dr. McCoy,” Spock greeted as he stood like a soldier with his hands behind his back.

“Whatever are you doing here?“ McCoy asked bluntly. “Lost?” He couldn’t seem to stop the sarcasm. “Slumming? Down on your luck?” He smirked. “Washed up by the tide? Discarded by a seagull?” A perverse glee had struck him. He was on a roll. He felt like he could come up with a million of these one-liners. Only trouble, though, his audience wasn’t appreciating his witty repartee. Damn Vulcan’s loss, that’s all McCoy could say on that subject.

Spock raised an eyebrow as if he did not understand what McCoy was talking about, which, indeed, he didn’t.

McCoy’s smirk deepened. “It’s pretty bad when even the seagulls don’t want you.” 

Yeah, that was the shitty kind of mood he was in, and the Vulcan better get that figured out before this social occasion progressed any further. The door was still open. Spock could still turn and leave. Nothing was holding him, as far as McCoy could tell.

Puzzled, Spock turned his head to the side. He looked like a quizzical dog or parrot. 

It fit the asshole perfectly, McCoy decided and fought back the urge to tell Spock so. That sort of thing might make the Vulcan turn and leave, and suddenly McCoy didn’t want that. Then, too, some sort of empathy made him realize that it had taken quite a bit of courage for Spock to show up here. The Vulcan had never gotten too much of a positive response from McCoy. Why would the Vulcan even try it now?

Perhaps Spock was lonely, too?

He had said that he was missing Jim Kirk. But McCoy felt like he was going to be a poor substitute for their charming, sexy captain.

“Pardon?” Spock asked, apparently to seek information but perhaps also to complete his impersonation of a quizzical dog or parrot. 

The guy really ought to go into show business, McCoy thought. Spock did imitations and just didn’t realize it. He was a natural. He’d rake in the money and not realize why. His puzzlement would only add to the general hilarity.

But perhaps Spock wasn’t doing impersonations. Perhaps he would be insulted and, worse yet, hurt if he knew what McCoy was really thinking. 

McCoy didn’t want to hurt the guy. Not really. It was be really tough being Spock. McCoy had never thought about Spock in that way before. Maybe the guy wasn’t being prissy or deliberately distant. Maybe Spock had troubles, too! Now, there was a revelation! Spock with worries. Spock with troubles. Spock with problems. Spock… human!

Whatever, McCoy did not wish to harm him. Neither did he want Spock to leave. But did he have to keep his damn head turned so quizzically to the side? That’d make anybody split a gut.

McCoy turned aside before he laughed and chased off his surprise company. “Never mind. May I help you with something?”

“I thought that I might be able to help you, Doctor. I perceived that you were restless and not yet asleep.”

McCoy raised an eyebrow of his own. “You are very perceptive to realize that through closed doors.”

“Actually, I was gauging your present situation on your behavior at dinner. If exposure to the society of other men at a social occasion such as dining was not helping any, I could not understand how solitude would help your attitude any. I intuited that you somehow desired company, even though you consciously indicated otherwise.“

“Well, aren’t you just the little psychoanalyst?” 

Spock had no answer for that, so he just stood there.

Then McCoy got some perception of the situation himself and realized that the Vulcan might at any moment bolt. McCoy wasn’t helping either one of them very much, and he would understand if the Vulcan gave him up for a lost cause. Turning on his heel and leaving would seem like a very wise choice if McCoy himself was the one offering relief and receiving such a cold reception as McCoy was giving to Spock.

“But I am forgetting my manners, sir.“ McCoy’s ingrained training in the Deep South took over since his conscious self was failing so miserably. But then his energy gave out just that quickly. Let the Vulcan see him for what he really was, warts and all. “Come on in, if you wish to,” he mumbled as he turned away.

McCoy knew that if his father had been anywhere within striking distance of his antisocial son’s rump, his father would’ve kicked him soundly in it. Then David McCoy would’ve just given his son a very disapproving look while his hapless grown child would’ve rubbed his throbbing posterior. His mama would have a pained look on her face as she lamented that they had raised him better than that.

Spock accepted the off-hand invitation and stepped into McCoy’s quarters as the door whooshed shut behind him.

And then they were suddenly very alone.

McCoy didn’t quite know what to do with his company, but he didn’t want to lose him, either. Spock was BREATHING. Spock’s brain was working, so he could think and express himself in conversation. And all of that was better than any other offer that had come McCoy’s way during this quiet night.

The thought that he needed to make Spock stay perked up McCoy.

“Sit down. Sit down. Wanna drink?” he offered as Spock took the other chair. “I’ve got bourbon. I’ll fetch another glass for you.” Thank goodness, he hadn’t been drinking straight from the bottle! No Southern gentleman should ever reduce himself to doing that!

“No, thank you, Doctor. Artificial stimulants have no affect on me, so their charms are quite lost on me.”

McCoy settled in his own chair and gave Spock a wise look with a raised eyebrow. “Well, now, maybe you just have not found the right artificial stimulant that could have an affect on you. Have you ever thought of it in those terms?”

“I have to admit that I have not, Doctor. I sometimes wish that some intoxicating beverage might benefit me in ways in which it seems to benefit other people. It seems to help in a multitude of social situations.”

“Yes, having a glass of something to hang onto gets a person through many a sticky conversation. Who knows, Spock? We might find that you’re a party animal, after all. A drink might bring out the real you.“

“It well might happen that way, Doctor.“

“We’ll have to do some research along those lines sometime. Maybe we can pick a planet and hit all its bars with the aim to getting you drunk. How does that offer sound to you?” His smile was very genial.

“I appreciate your effort in my regards, but I feel that I would have to decline.”

“Why not?! You’ll never know until you try!”

“I cannot support research with such negative results. Why would I wish to become intoxicated? I would rather have a more constructive project to research.”

“And what constructive project would that be, Mr. Spock?” McCoy asked, playing along. He was amazed at how much he was enjoying this discussion, and he hadn’t even told the Vulcan off once!

“I notice that you have some very sentimental music playing, Doctor.”

McCoy smirked into his drink. “I’m a sentimental kind of guy.”

“We could use that music constructively for a proposed project.”

McCoy squinted his eyes at Spock. “What do you have in mind?”

“We could do more than listen to the music. We could dance to it.”

McCoy blinked. Then a slow grin crossed his face. He felt an odd excitement, because he realized that the night had just suddenly shifted with its rhythms. Something was in the air. Something stirring and vibrant. Something stimulating and arousing.

Something sexual.

“Are you asking me to dance, sir?” he asked with his prettiest grin.

“I believe that I am, Doctor.”

“Well, now, I just might take you up on that invitation.” McCoy put aside the bottle and stood up. He was surprised that he was feeling eager. “Well, how are we going to go about this?”

Spock stood, also. “I ask you, so I will lead.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

They went into each other’s arms as if they had always done so, and it felt right for them to do that. And it felt right for them to dance slowly around the room to the soft music of the torch song playing in the background.

“I didn’t know you could dance, Spock,” McCoy noted when the numbness left enough for him to feel Spock’s arms around him. How comforting they were! How sure Spock led!

“You never asked, Leonard.”

McCoy grinned. “I think that’s the first time you’ve ever used my first name.”

“It think that this is the first time we have ever danced together, also.”

McCoy’s grin extended to his eyes. “A whole night of firsts, isn’t it?”

“It appears to be, Doctor.”

Then McCoy got brave and decided to mess with the rhythms of the night some more. Maybe they could even explore that sexual tone he had noted when Spock had first suggested dancing.

“You know, Spock, we can only dance so long.”

“As long as we determine to perform this exercise will be sufficient.”

“Sufficient for what, Spock?” McCoy asked huskily.

“For whatever comes next.”

McCoy’s eyes searched Spock’s face. McCoy was liking this game, but suddenly it seemed like more than a game. And he did not mind the consequences. “And what will come next?”

“Oh, I believe that we will be able to determine that easily enough when we come to that juncture.”

The grin was extending to McCoy’s heart. “Oh, we will, will we?”

“Yes, Doctor, I believe that we will.”

“You know, I have a whole stack of old torch songs.”

“That is an interesting fact to know.”

“And we can dance to them as long as we wish, clear into the wee hours of the morning, if we so desire.”

“Yes, we can, Doctor.”

“In fact, we could dance the night away.”

“It sounds like a good occupation for people who are desiring some company.”

“And we could get some early breakfast because we’ll be tired and hungry by then. Because we danced the night away.” He looked levelly at Spock. “In each other‘s arms.”

“I would imagine that we would be hungry by then, Doctor. And tired.” Spock looked levelly back at McCoy. “We might even wish to rest for awhile before we eat.”

Was it McCoy’s imagination, or did Spock squeeze his arm tighter around McCoy‘s waist? If Spock had, McCoy did not mind, at all. Not at all.

In the background, McCoy could hear Ella Fitzgerald singing:  
“I want a Sunday kind of love  
A love to last, past Saturday night”

Was this McCoy’s Sunday kind of love? Someone who had been right under his nose for years? He knew that Spock felt right in his arms. He had a notion that Spock would fit right into his bed. In fact, McCoy knew he would.

McCoy’s heart was in his throat when he asked the next question.

“So. Spock. Ah, wanna spend the rest of the night?” He glanced hard at Spock. “With me?” 

Spock gave McCoy a knowing, intimate look. “I brought my pajamas and toothbrush, Leonard. Just in case I was asked.”

Joy shot through McCoy’s body, and he got brazen. “The toothbrush is all that you’re gonna get a chance to use, you know.”

“You will have to keep me warm then, if I am not going to be given the opportunity to wear my pajamas.”

“No problem! Is that your toothbrush I can feel in your front pocket now?”

Spock‘s eyes were mellow. “My toothbrush is in my back pocket, Leonard.”

“Oh, yeah! I can feel it now!”

Spock raised an eyebrow and gave McCoy a knowing look. “That is not my back pocket, Leonard.”

“I think it is. It’s a place to put things, isn’t it?”

“Oh, Leonard, you are being so droll this evening.”

McCoy felt breathless as he pointedly gazed at Spock‘s mouth. “Do you ever use those lips for anything besides forming words and passing food through?”

Spock stopped dancing. “Whatever are you proposing, Leonard?”

McCoy felt breathless, and he had to say what was on his mind before he lost his nerve. “I think I want to be kissed by a green-assed bastard with darling pointed ears! And I want him to do it now, before we‘re both a minute older!”

“You think that my pointed ears are darling?” Spock asked as he rubbed McCoy’s back and gently drew him closer toward his delicious, hard body.

“Oh, yeah!” McCoy answered quite breathlessly now as his fingers messed with the top of Spock‘s shoulder. “Your ears are so damn cute, and I know cute! I’m from the Deep South where ‘cute’ is a way of life! Where did you Vulcans ever come up with such cute ears? It‘s the cutest damn thing I‘ve ever seen.” He surprised himself by winking. “Or ever hope to see. Yes, sir, I think my tongue would have a lot of fun running around the edges of those ears!” Then he turned aside.

“Leonard? What is wrong?”

“Damn it! This is crazy! The truth is that I’m nervous!”

“Why? It is just me, Spock.”

McCoy looked back at Spock. “And so much more. My angel in the night, my savior, my bearer of damn cute ears.”

“You talk too much, Leonard,” Spock said as he prepared to press his lips against McCoy’s.

“I’ll grow on you!” McCoy murmured as his shining eyes flicked over Spock’s face. Then he grabbed the Vulcan to him. This talking foreplay was fun, but McCoy wanted to get to the main event. They were already another minute older, but he could change that statistic from getting any longer.

No way Spock was getting away from him now, but he had a sneaking hunch that Spock had no plans to leave. Not for a good, long while. And that suited McCoy perfectly, just the way that the Vulcan’s body was fitting perfectly against his.

Yes, sir, McCoy could get used to a Vulcan in his life. 

And in his arms.

And in his bed.

In the background, Miss Ella kept singing, but Leonard McCoy didn't need her anymore. His prayers had been answered, and he was going to make certain that the Vulcan's prayers were answered, too. Maybe that's why Miss Ella sounded so sad. The lucky ones didn't need her anymore, for they had found a heart as true as their own.

“I want a Sunday kind of love”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing of the song "I Want A Sunday Kind Of Love" by Louis Prima and others.  
> I own nothing of the song "The Blues In the Night" by Harold Arlen and Johnny Mercer.  
> I own nothing of the song "Love Walked Right In" by George Gershwin.

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing of Star Trek, its characters, and/or its story lines.


End file.
